


Beautiful Insanity

by Scarecrowqueen



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Heavy on the Metaphors, I Don't Even Know, James T. Kirk Needs a Hug, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Stream of Consciousness, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: James T. Kirk is not in love with his First Officer. Really.





	1. Please Take Back This Disease

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?
> 
> This was my first Trek fic back in 2011 and I think it shows.

You are James T. Kirk, captain of the USS Enterprise, Starfleet’s newest flagship.

You are the youngest captain in Starfleet history. (and take that all you bastards who said it couldn’t be done, who said you were nothing.)

(You are formerly the only genius level repeat-offender in the Midwest. You are not as proud of this, obviously.)

Every day, you sit center-chair on the command bridge of the coolestmotherfucking ship in the universe and explore new worlds, saving people, solving problems, boldly going were no man has gone before. It’s fairly awesome, all said and done.

You work with the most talented crew anybody could ask for, and everyday they bring over 100 percent to the table, and you know they’ll never let you down, just as you will do the same.

There is no question of this.

There is no question that you love your life.

There is no question that, sometimes, you are fucking miserable.

Because there is no question that you are (most assuredly not!) in love with you First Officer.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

You have never noticed his hands, long, slender, graceful appendages that he manipulates with the utmost of skill and precision. You have never watched them almost obsessively, under the guise of examining his moves on the chessboard between you, whenever you play.

You have never admired the slightest shadow of freckles on the bridge of his nose, a telling sign of his half-humanity. 

You certainly have not thought a thousand times about a much-higher average body temperature, about a body three times stronger than yours, and what it would mean to be held close, all heatsafetywarmthlovedevotion in a fashion you’re never known. This would be, to steal a phrase, illogical.

Most days, the voice of reason in your head is his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You are not, and never have been, jealous of Lt. Uhura (Nyota.) They way he turns his body to her, telling to those who know him, the slight brushes (Vulcan kisses!) of their fingers as they speak mean nothing to you.

You watch them from the corner of your eye on the bridge, and punch the wall in your quarters that night.

No one asks about your bruised knuckles the next day, but Bones’ level look tells you all you need to know about his opinion. 

You make small talk about the last mission, until he gets the hint and leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You are in orbit around some godforsaken Podunk-nowhere planet, an away team down on the surface collecting samples and researching shit, and you stare at the black canvas of eternal night, the pinprick stars unfamiliar, and you think of dark, dark eyes, the starlight-pale (greenish, from green blood) skin, and think ‘he has all the depth and breadth of endless space’ and curse yourself a fool.

You pass him later, on the way to the bridge. He nods to you over his Padd, and you ignore the fissure down your spine like quicksilver. (helookedatmehelookedhelooked…)

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Months in to this five year trek and you are quietly coming apart at the seams, every time you’re alone. (Which is both far too often, and never often enough.) You are mad sometimes with the inconceivability of it all, with the want and the need, and the never having. 

You light candles now, in your quarters when it’s too much, the way Ambassador Selek (older Spock, future Spock, not your Spock but sometimes close enough to ease the ache a little) has shown you. You are friends in a fashion, as best you can with all the ghosts (different incarnations of each other, and memories of another time, another life left in your head) in-between you.

You gather you thoughts, clear them neatly into little compartments of your mind. Ship, and Crew, and Missions, and Other.

And Spock, of course, largest compartment of them all.

It’s not comfortable, compressing such a large feeling -(love and lust and safety and companionship and joyjoyjoy)   
Into such a small, metal box within you, but you do it.

When you finish, you envision yourself draping a white sheet (mourning cloth) over it to keep it safe. You come out of it panting, tears shining wetly on your cheeks.

Vulcans are touch telepaths, after all, and sometimes in your day-to-day duties, you may brush arms, or bump shoulders.

(Always by accident, of course. You’ve never craved any such contact that badly. Nevernevernever)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You like women.

You like women a lot.

You like their hair, their eyes, their feminine curves and laughs and smells.

You’ve been searching your whole life for (love) an equal, someone to make you real.

You finally found it, male, half-breed, pointy ears and all.

You tell yourself it makes no difference, because it doesn’t, not really. All your love means nothing, because it never has. (you mean nothing but the occasionally scolding eyebrow and nearly-exasperating iteration of captain)

You realize that you're being, well, rather girly about all of this, and curse softly under your breath.

The look Chekov shoots you when he hears is surreptitious and studying. You ignore it.

(ignore it ignore it ignore it it will go awayawayaway)

It doesn’t.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You dream sometimes of passion, back arching, warm heavy weight pressing you down, down, of heat and lust and communion, of oneness and meld (warm sweetsweet this body over me and around me and in me moremoremore) and it’s nothing like you’ve ever known

But the dreams die when you wake, sheets sticky, alone, and cold.

You are empty these days, hollow and scooped out and it’s not all about sex, really, because in the stillest moments you have, you can admit to yourself that all you really want is to crawl into him and hide, until he makes the world a better place for you.

(until the universe stops spinning and collapses and everything fades fades fades and you could be home there, really)

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Today you sit on the bridge, the hum of your ship cradles you, moves you at warp speed through constellations, past planets and nebulas and the intricacies of this dark ocean you sail, and your skin prickles along the back of your neck, every bit of you hyperaware of him at his station behind you. You are infected by him, every inch of you alive and aware and hopelessly (foreverandeveramen) awaiting what will never come.

You are James T. Kirk, and you are not in love with your First Officer.

You will never tell him otherwise.


	2. No Balm in Gilead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange for you, Jim is not a talker, not even when drunk, but now he’s somewhere between tipsy and maudlin and baring his soul they way you have a thousand times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?

Jim speaks to you about it only once. The whiskey flows freely, and soon the words come too. (like a fountain, a river, a waterfall, rushrushrush)

It’s strange for you, Jim is not a talker, not even when drunk, but now he’s somewhere between tipsy and maudlin and baring his soul they way you have a thousand times.

You shake off your surprise and offer cheap condolences, but you can’t fix this, a raw ache beyond the physical medium.

You’re a doctor, dammit, not a miracle worker. Not even a good friend, a truly good friend would (beat some sense into that pointy-eared bastard) have better ways of helping, better ideas, more sympathy to offer.

You are a doctor, not a magician.

You have no hypo for this.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You completely understand. More than he knows, probably.

You too are (unworthy, unequal, unnoticed) ignored. Love’s bitch, Mr. Scott had said.

Russian winters were not so cold as this, you swear to it.

When you see the captain eating alone in the mess, you take the empty seat across the table.

“I know” you tell him when he looks at you with question. “I understand, yes Keptin?” You allow your eyes to shift noticeably a few tables away, to where the helmsman (Hikaru!) eats, poring over a Padd, lips around his fork.

The Captain follows your gaze, then nods once, sharply, eyes softening.

You finish your lunches in silence, brothers in this if nothing else. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

If looks could claim, you’d have lost your lover ages ago.

You are the best Communications Officer Starfleet has ever seen, you know body language and you know peoples souls, from they way they move, what they say.

And what they don’t.

You know everything, but you’ll never say anything. You watch your Captain watch you and your lover and refuse to feel (jealous, victorious, smug, sympathetic) anything but indifference.

You saw him first, after all. You know the secrets of his soul, too. And there is no room there for (a reckless, stunning, irrepressible, brilliant captain) another.

And Nyota Uhura doesn’t share.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

There are a couple of souls on your crew that know. (Damn your weakness, damn them for noticing)

They hold your secret close. (cradle it safely like it’s their own)

You are proud of them, of their loyalty, even in the matter of your heartbreak.

You would trade nothing (not even your own happiness, your own completion) to change this, at risk of losing everything.

There is only so much you can ask the universe for and receive; you know this above all to be true.


	3. Tarde Venientibus Ossa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the late are left the bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?

The Captain has a peculiar fondness for apples. When questioned about it, he makes vague comments about the Human sense of taste and his preferences thereof.  
(Because I like them, Spock.)  
But later, on the observation deck he’d related the old Terran religious tale of Adam and Eve. You are half mesmerized by his storytelling (and his consumption of the fruit in reference, red flesh white meat juice on his fingers.)

“So you see,” he says, turning the orb over in blunt fingers, “it’s the symbolism of the thing. All at once, this simple fruit is both representative of the forbidden, of all the knowledge and temptation of humanity incarnate. It is also,” here he pauses to take another bite “Original sin, the moment when paradise was denied to us. I find the concepts involved… intriguing, to say the least.” (The shine of the nectar on his lips does not draw your attention, even momentarily.)

He affects a lazy pirate smile and flicks the core in a graceful arc to the waste receptacle. He does not miss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It takes you some time to give name to the phenomenon surrounding you.

You are Vulcan. (Proud, strong, controlled) You are a scientist. While your human half may offer unique (intuitive emotional unsubstantiated) perspective on most interpersonal relationships, you have a long history of deferring emotional response in favor of quantifiable observations.

(Lately you have begun to foster these more-human instincts. It pleases Uhura, and it satisfies you to offer something to the memory of your human mother. Your deciding moment was a conversation with the Captain on the subject, in fact. “It would be… illogical to ignore these responses in yourself any longer.” He had said, almost idly. “You are what you are, are you not?”)

Regardless, you do notice eventually. (Not soon enough though, no no no)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Nyota is a good woman. (Intelligent attractive talented driven committed asksforlittle) One of her more attractive (Vulcan) qualities is her low-maintenance attitude. While she makes certain demands of your free time and holds certain expectations regarding your level of commitment, she has never insisted you engage in the assorted fripperies of most conventional relationships.

Nyota is (comfortable acceptable habitual logical) a good match for you, better than you had hoped for considering your tenuous relationship with the rest of the (surviving) Vulcan population narrows your options in that direction. (Halfbreedhalfbreedhalfbreed)

Nyota and the Captain are quietly at war.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Poetic human narratives would describe the antagonism with abstract qualities and copious amounts of simile and metaphor.

A Vulcan would be forced to admit to an illogical restrained hostility between the two. You are surprised (perturbed chagrined ashamed) to concede that Uhura seems to be the one instigating the unwariness. While both hold to professionalism in the highest sense, you are dismayed to notice the subtle undercurrents of a power struggle.

Once noticed, you divert as much speculative resources as your brain has to spare towards deducing the source of the discontent. (Like a puzzle, whywhywhy?)

Over many days you gather clues, collect observations.

The answer, when it arrives, startles you right out of a deep meditation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Nyota is a good woman.

She is also a little more possessive than you had anticipated. You know her well enough to know that she has no desire to cause outright unpleasantness; in fact she seems to harbor significant amounts of empathy for the Captain, and yet the territorial lines have been drawn. You are not completely surprised, such behavior when threatened, even without malicious intent, tends to bring some of the more resentful (base) human behaviors to the surface. (You refuse to admit that Vulcans can be guilty of this too)

You are unclear as to how your human side should feel, having become a trophy to be flaunted.

The Captain’s interest in you is (confusing amazing bewildering) flattering, certainly. Like a doctor diagnosing a sickness as something being fatal, you know every sign now. You have the equations of this memorized (percentage of prolonged eye contact divided by number of time lips are licked to the power of the time you spend together alone, equals an undeniable attraction)

You wait for the Captain (Jim) to extend an offer of courtship so you may politely decline and this madness can stop.

Months pass in a holding pattern and he says nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You… are confused.

And frustrated. (human emotions, not Vulcan. Half-human, therefore permissible?)

You choose Nyota. Every day, in many little ways, you choose her. (stomp on the voice that says a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize and wonder what he knows about any of this) Nyota is your safety, someone you know and can understand, and as a couple you are an easy fit to each other. (She is a logical choice, one you are pleased with.) You could never have that with James T. Kirk. (too wild too untamed too unpredictable heart pounding blood rushing outofcontrol makes you feelfeelfeel…)

Weeks (months, years, eternities) after all this starts, the Captain (Kirk. James. Jim) reaches for your arm as you take your leave of his quarters. (chess. Only a game of chess, nothing more)

With deliberately calculated motions, you remove his hand from your arm. Your body is canted to the perfect angle; face even, eye contact steady. You have studied this (so much of Terran communication is non-verbal!) and assimilated enough into your repertoire that your message is unmistakable.

Jim (Captain) swallows and nods once, retracting his hand. He does not speak.

You do not either, and you leave quickly, before the tellingly wet shine in impossibly blue eyes becomes something more tangible.

(Again, again, again) You choose Uhura.

(Vulcans do not lie, not even to themselves.)

This is what you want

(It is it is it is it is…)

(You are what you are, are you not?)


	4. Brilliant, Vast, Undying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t drink often, anymore. Not like you used to, not when you had nothing going for you (nothing to lose.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?

You don’t drink often, anymore. Not like you used to, not when you had nothing going for you (nothing to lose.)

You have everything to lose now. Today, though, you let go. Bones drinks with you, flopped backwards on his bed, passing the bottle back and forth.

“Love has teeth” he says, eyes set to a dim point only he can see. “Love has claws. It scratches and snarls and feeds. You pay it your pound of flesh that way, and you don’t get it back.”

Today is the anniversary of his divorce. You say nothing, and let him keep the bottle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You sit with Chekov on the observation deck, warp speed turning the stars into little glowing trails past the window. Usually you appreciate the quiet moments in the presence of one of your main (favorite) bridge crew members. Today though, you only have half an ear for the topic.

“Iz not so bad, this ‘love,’ Keptin.” He says, face moon-pale and open (young)

Sulu appears in the doorway, summoning you both to shift. Chekov stands first, hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you too, soon?” His optimism earns an empty grin and a friendly clap on the shoulder, but you are a starship Captain, you do not live in maybes, only in ‘Things You Must Do’ or ‘Things That Must Not Be Done’ as the situation requires (and eventually, ‘Do’ or ‘Do Not’ will give way to ‘Die.’ You have no illusions about this.)

(You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk, a captain cannot cheat death.)

When Pavel leaves the room, Sulu is right on his heels. They walk before you, so close their shoulder’s brush with every step. Neither seems to mind.

(Well then, love indeed!)

You realize your eyebrow has crept up in an unconscious pantomime of a certain Vulcan First Officer. You quickly correct your mistake, before anyone sees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Meditation brings you no stillness today. Instead, you speak to yourself.

(Rather literally, in fact.)

Ambassador Selek intrigues you, as it is difficult now for you to postulate the changes that must occur, the knowledge that you must gain to eventually become him. (Dignified, benevolent, self-assured) It is somewhat of a novelty to request advisory from oneself, but you outline your predicament as best you can.

Afterwards, he is silent for a long time. You resist the illogical impulse to squirm.

“Much has changed, between our worlds.” (The words seem very heavy to your Human ears, but your Vulcan mind brushes the thought aside)

“I will tell you now, as I did before; you must choose what feels right. I cannot be of influence here. Indeed you will find that, in my time, there was no such choice.”

You (Vulcan) will draw the literal conclusion. - You (Human) will also know better, that this statement was made on many levels.

You bid him well, then return to your meditations. (Enlightened)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You hadn’t told Nyota what happened between you and the Captain, the last evening you played chess together. In your limited knowledge of Terran social customs, it somehow seemed inappropriate.

You suspect she knows though, somehow. She watches with a strange eye, you standing next to your Captain, heads bent together over the schematic spread on the console. You are confused, you have done nothing wrong here, you don’t believe. (There is a perfectly acceptable six-inch buffer between your bodies; almost ruler-perfect, in fact)

(Afraid to be close, afraid to be far)

You have not returned for another game of chess since that night, and while your exchanges on the bridge are a little more impersonal than they had been before, you are both consummate professionals who would never let a little… misunderstanding waylay you from performing your duties. 

(Liar. Fear compels you, logic enslaves you.)

When shift ends, you escort her to the Mess Hall before continuing to the onboard labs. In concession to her unvoiced but recognized discontent, you allow her a (Terran) kiss as you part.

It is illogical, and a physical impossibility that the Captain’s gaze on your back could feel like burning.

(but it does)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Nyota sits you down in her quarters weeks later. You know immediately that something is not right; she is exhibiting all her tells of emotional disturbance. Your inquiries into her wellbeing are met with a chuckle-turned-sob. 

Your concern is a legitimate feeling. Your panic is illogical (ice down your spine)

“I know.” She tells you. “I understand, really. I won’t keep you any longer.”

It takes you far too long to assimilate the fact that she’s terminating your romantic liaison, distracted as you are by her obvious distress. You question her again on her state of health.

“No I’m not ok, not now, but I will be, you’ll see.” She kisses you on the cheek, one last time. (farewell) As you leave, she smiles through the tears. (so very very human, that is)

Some part of you believes her.

You wait a month to be sure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Nyota’s smiles for you are different now, but no less satisfying to see. You have begun spending time together again, and while it is also different, it is also pleasant in new ways.

Today though, you are not with Nyota.

Today you stand outside your Captains quarters.

He is noticeably surprised by your presence, which in and of itself is not surprising to you, as this is your first time seeking him out for anything not Enterprise-related since that last fateful chess game. (Weeks ago, now. The thought makes you feel illogically hollow.)

Today, you stand before the Captain (Jim) in plainclothes, apology on your lips, and peace offering in hand.

(Nyota’s suggestion. - “Human’s like little tokens like that,” she’d said. She was never wrong.)

He listens silently as you muddle through a Terran apology, awkward with it in your unfamiliarity. You finish relatively unscathed, if flushed a little greener than usual, hands outstretched with your gift cradled between.

There are three full breathes between the moment you finish speaking and the moment he responds.

(Not that you are breathing)

“Forgiven,” he says (and even if the accompanying smile is small and fragile, it makes the tight band across your chest loosen.)

His fingers brush yours as he takes the bright red apple from your palms. (You ignore the fissure down your spine, like quicksilver.)

~~~~~~~~~ 

One-point-two-one hours later, you are winning at chess, and Jim is laughing, relaxed in your presence in a way he hasn’t been in months (forever!) The upward tilt of your lips is impossible to control.

You lift a Rook in a steady hand, and move in for the kill.


	5. Tying Up the Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She slides into the turbolift like a serpent past the closing door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?

She slides into the turbolift like a serpent past the closing door. There is a moment of silence between you, and she uses it to take up a perfect regulation pose next to you; posture ramrod straight, arms folded behind her back, and feet shoulder width apart. You know this is premeditated, the sinking inside you all-consuming. Her hand is almost a blur to the control panel, freezing the lift in time. She faces you now, same bearing, but dead on.

(ohshitohshitohshit)

“If you hurt him, Kirk, I’ll gut you, string your intestines along the length of the ship, douse you in lemon juice and salt and then space what’s left of your sorry ass.”

You are quick to offer Uhura as many hasty agreements as it takes to get her intense (burning) gaze to soften. (Scared like a little girl you are, and man enough to admit it)

“I’m glad we had this chat, Captain.” The lift moves on and she disembarks.

It takes you a second to compose yourself long enough to start the lift again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You find him in one of the holographic recreation rooms.

He’s shed his command-gold (crumpled and forgotten on the floor) leaving him only in his black undershirt and slacks.

He is currently smashing dishes. (A wild, frenetic look about him as he flings china against walls, ceiling, floor, melodic chiming of broken pieces a serenade to destruction.)

You allow him another few minutes in silence. When he finishes, his homemade program self-terminates and the masses of shattered porcelain flicker and disappear.

(Sometimes Spock, you just have to break things to feel better.)

He turns abruptly to leave, ignoring your presence.

(Chekov is still in medbay, held together by tubes and wires, Sulu standing vigil. The away mission could not have gone more wrong)

He walks just past you, then stops. When he leans backwards into you, tipping his head onto your shoulder, you can feel the tension that shakes his whole frame.

(You don’t need your touch-telepathy to hear the guilt he carries singing in every vein. Captaincy has its price, paid in the sacrifices made by loyal crew.)

You allow your head to fall back onto his shoulder, eyes closing, hair mixing where your heads touch. Back to back you stand, offering your strength to hold him up as he trembles against you.

(You know he does not cry, although he wishes to)

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You smile until your face hurts, making small talk with this world’s newly elected leader, a flute of ambiguous celebratory drink in your hand. 

(You hate diplomacy, you really really do)

Your (beautiful half-Vulcan) First is across the room, stoic and composed as always as he engages some Official or another.

He senses your gaze and your eyes meet, and you can almost hear his teeth grinding (if Vulcans ever deigned to display such obvious frustration) and you are forced to suppress a laugh.

(He hates diplomacy too, despite how good you both have become at it.)

Your smile is more genuine now.

He rescues you a short time later, making polite excuses to return to your ship. You allow him to lead you from the room, his hand gentle on the small of your back (You are alive and warm and happy in that little touch)

He deliberately caresses your fingers with his own the moment before you’re beamed up.

(The slight green blush on the tips of his ears is ridiculously endearing)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The first time is amazing (sweat-slick skin and hands clasped and mouths kissing, like a meteor impact, like an inferno, like an unbridled force of nature)

You fumble a little, both of you new to this, to each other, and for the first time you laugh, truly laugh during sex. It’s so much fun, you decide to make it a habit.

(He is far more playful and passionate that you’d pictured. This is very much not disappointing to you)

His fingers find your face and your minds meet. Everything gains a new dimension, a new weight. You intertwine, looping a heavy red rope around yourselves, to bind yourselves together, and in your ecstasy you glow.

After you curl into each other, you feel him both stretched against you and (calmquietcontented) in the back of your mind.

(Even without the bond, you could never leave him, not if you wanted to survive)

When you sleep, your dreams are wonderful, shared things.

(Sunlight and lush gardens and each other, together and always)


	6. Ten Thousand Infinities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have dreamed of this forever, it seems.
> 
> Forever and no time at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, currently uploading a bunch of old writing from my Dreamwidth to the Archive here. That means this fic is only Star Trek: XI compliant as Into Darkness and Beyond didn’t exist at time of writing. Also this is old as shit so don’t judge the quality of my writing too hard please mmkay?

You have dreamed of this forever, it seems.

Forever and no time at all.

The lines of his face, the tilt of his jaw just this side of regal, the pointed tips of his ears, compelling in a visceral way.

His strong, graceful hands cupping yours; stroking his fingers over the backs, lacing your fingers together (making out the Vulcan way, hotter than you could have imagined, feeling the pulsebuzzthrum of everything he is beneath)

T’hy’la, he breathes into the (minimal) space between you.

You breathe in his exhalation (friendbrotherlover)

He is everything; the minute double-helixes of his genetics a miracle made flesh, the entire universe in its swirling glory shifting beneath his skin.

Your mind opens to him under careful fingers, and now comes the deep, spreading before him like an ocean parting, and he slides into your depths, Davy Jones come for his locker.

You give him all that and more (takeittakeittakeit, all that I am, I am yours)

Space, time and distance are not laws that can touch you here.

(Nothing, nothing is ever stronger than this, than us) and down the line the echoes of his affirmation reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Nothing has changed, really, in day to day operations. You are both the textbook example of constant professionalism. (Probably him more so than you, owing to his Vulcan temperament)

You share quarters at night; that is all.

And if Ensign Chekov smiles at you a little more, (and you totally see that subtle hand on Lieutenant Sulu’s knee beneath the table) and Mr. Scott seems a little more amused whenever you stand next to him, and Doctor McCoy’s grumblings have become marginally more good-natured towards your First Officer, and Uhura (Nyota) feels the need to smile smugly at you both (like she knew all along,) then it stands to reason that (you are not nearly as discrete as you thought) nothing even has to.

You have this now, and it is (familybelongingacceptancelove) exactly what you needed.

(You will change the world; sculpt the face of the universe like clay. It could not be any other way but this, forever onward into uncharted territory)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

These are the things that are important:

Your people settling on new Vulcan (first infant born on-colony 17.8 days ago)  
Your comrades and crew (family)  
The Enterprise (home)  
Jim (all that you are is him is you is youandhimforever)

Even unto death (and beyond, into the unknown dark, and while you will outlive him you will indeed someday follow, off the mortal coil into the beyond and to his side once more, starbright and unending and never ever broken)

This is the lest leg of your journey, the last long stretch of space before your five year mission ends, before you return to Earth for new assignments. (These should be your last moments together as a crew, but a wholly illogical part of you does not believe that this is true)

From your seat on the bridge you can see you future mapped before you, spinning into eternity and unconquerable, these people surrounding you, Jim by your side and galaxies of trials and challenges and discoveries awaiting you.

(you have never been so sure of anything as this, of destiny moving people in circles through time and across realities, of these things that are meant to be and will never change)

(There are countless infinities laid out for your choosing, and one by one you will have them all.)

(His joy will carry you through)


End file.
